


shieldpoint

by ApprenticeofDoyle



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Blood, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Story: The Adventure of the Illustrious Client, Watson Kicks Some Ass (TM), based directly on the Granada ep ILLU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:40:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25363258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApprenticeofDoyle/pseuds/ApprenticeofDoyle
Summary: A dinner at Simpson's in the midst of a dangerous case ends in horror when, walking home, Watson stumbles across an assault on Holmes by hired men.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 79





	shieldpoint

**Author's Note:**

> I love me some badass Watson (that silver-tipped walking stick, though), and I always thought there was opportunity in 'The Illustrious Client' for him to knock some heads. This works for ACD canon or Granada, but I specifically imagine Brett and Hardwicke (as it's often quite hard to envision any one else in the roles).
> 
> This is for all the babes out there who enjoy the imagery of Hardwicke being a BAMF (as he was and deserved to be seen as ❤), XOXO.

_shieldpoint_

The hour was growing late, the maitre’d had long since cleared away our table, and I had sucked my cigar near to the butt, whittling away as much time with Holmes as I could before the waitstaff turned us out for business close. I wanted nothing more than to go home with him to Baker Street rather than back to the clinic. We had seen little of each other since he took this case earlier in the week, and I had been missing his company somewhat terribly, due to our conflicting schedules. Miraculously, Holmes had agreed to meet me for supper in the Strand, and I had been surprised and pleased when he accepted the invitation. Holmes rarely could be convinced to eat voluntarily in the midst of an investigation, and it was practically unheard of that he would waste time sitting in a restaurant when he could be on task.

However happy I was he could join me, the sight of him as he first sat down at our table had filled me with no little concern. While Holmes tended towards the ivory side of pale, tonight he looked practically colorless. His energy, usually electric when his brilliant mind was turned onto a problem, was muted and strained; heavy lines had made themselves prominent beneath dark circles that seemed more pronounced than usual.

I soon learned the source of Holmes’s grim mood as he informed me about the latest break in the Baron Gruner case. The news he delivered was dark enough to turn my stomach. Ms. Winter’s testimony of abuse, and the attack she and Mr. Shinwell had experienced, made my skin crawl with horror and outrage. Holmes and I had faced much by way of humanity’s agency for darkness, shoulder to shoulder, but never had we come across a blackguard so foul as Gruner. I disliked, deeply and fiercely, that I was so caught up in my practice now, at such a time, when Holmes was going up against a man with such a clear capacity for cruelty. It was not only that I felt moved to ensure the man’s swift entry behind bars for the sake of those he had harmed, but the idea of Holmes facing off against such a villain alone—though he was certainly up to the challenge—rankled me beyond measure.

And while Holmes was clearly as disturbed by Ms. Winter’s horrible tale as I was, he was unerringly determined to see this out. The day would never come when Sherlock Holmes could be intimidated from a case, and that remained true doubly so when concerning such a scoundrel like Gruner.

Eventually, encouraged by the pointed drop of the check, we were stirred to end our meal. As we left, I expressed my regret that I could not join him on his sojourn home.

“I’ve got a mountain of work to do at the surgery, Holmes,” I said unhappily, stepping out into the shadowy London evening. The night was chilly and wet after a short downpour, and the cobblestone streets were lined with glittering, puddled streaks of reflected gaslight. “I won’t be home until quite late. If you’re asleep by then, I suppose I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Until tomorrow then,” Holmes said, perfunctory and distracted. He did not turn to me as he said his goodbye, starting off the opposite direction with a hard and focused expression, and I swallowed a stone from my throat.

“Holmes,” I protested, and as my voice reached his ears he halted midstride. Turning on a heel, he looked back to me, and for a fraction of a moment his mask of concentration slid away.

“I shall wait up for you,” he said, eyes softening. “I doubt I shall find much sleep this evening.” Immediately, the burden eased from my heart. I smiled, made warm as a hearth by Holmes’s offer.

“Until then,” I said, with low affection. With that, Holmes dipped his chin, mouth twitching upwards at a rogue corner, and set off at a brisk pace towards the main road. I watched his lengthy strides for a moment, admiring not for the first time the determined, fluid march of his legs as he went. Finally I sighed, forcing myself to confront the rest of my own evening. Though Simpson’s was within walking distance of Baker Street, I hadn’t the mettle to trek all the way to the clinic if I wanted energy to spare for the paperwork waiting for me on my desk. And I wanted to finish it quickly too: I had two consultations and a full surgery tomorrow with another attending in the morning to perform my first appendectomy. I would need all the rest I could acquire between now, paperwork, and what precious minutes I could steal with Holmes before collapse once I made it to our flat.

It was this precisely that I told myself as I made off in search of an empty hansom, but against reason, my stomach twisted in strange, slow-furling knots. I had little time to spare, I told myself, and I would have even less if I decided to walk home with Holmes. _Holmes wouldn’t likely care either way,_ my more logical half argued, _his mind is fixed completely on the case and we might not even exchange a word in the short trek home._

And yet, my feet dragged on the street, and my heart sent heated little pulses in remembrance of the soft look Holmes shared with me when he left. _It couldn’t hurt,_ the less rational quarter of my brain insisted. _And with this Gruner devil making threats, it’s best that Holmes not go about alone at night regardless—not without me._

That was quite a convincing point, I conceded, and it leveled some significant sway over the more practical voice in my ear. _Quite right,_ I thought, with swelling conviction, and with the tap of my stick I executed an about-face and advanced in Holmes’s direction, intent on catching up to him with speed. 

Loping down familiar alleys on the standard route home, I squinted in the night in search of Holmes’s top-hat as I rounded each corner. _Damned long legs,_ I thought, with fondness. At this rate, he’d beat me home and I’d be too embarrassed by my own romantic notion to walk him upstairs before hopping a cab. 

Shifting my jaw, I made haste, my walking-stick clacking the stones, which was why as I rounded the corner past the Pit Stalls Gallery, I did not immediately catch the harsh, resounding crack of wood against wood. But then sharp echoes bounced off the high brick building, reverberating in my ears. Curious, I drew to a halt at the corner as I looked around for the source of it. 

Peering down the dark street, I found myself going cold at the sight that met my eyes.

There, limp on the wet cobblestones, lay Holmes. His slack face, a white crescent in the moonlight, was smeared with blood. Above him, their fists wrapped around thin wooden staffs, stood two figures, their shadowy backs to me.

Holmes’s eyes were closed. My body froze with horror. 

But as I heard one of the figures looming above him rasp out a low, foul laugh, my fear evaporated. Very suddenly, my blood boiled hot and fiery, and my vision tunneled in red-tinted fury. Anger disintegrating the paralysis beneath my skin, I clenched the weapon in my hands. My throat locked around a cry, I gritted my teeth and dashed forward. Avoiding the water, I charged quietly enough that, as I raised my stick, one barely had time to turn round before I had cracked its heavy silver handle against his skull.

Choking on a gasp, the man crumpled like a sack of bricks, and the other backed away, crooked teeth bared in a hiss. I felt my face twist into a snarl of my own as I danced back, arm lifted to block a blow as he swung his stick down upon me with savage speed. His rage was no match to my fever, however. As he brought his weight down in a second blow I twisted at the parry, pivoting close enough to curl a wrist and drive the base end of my stick into his left knee. He roared out a curse, stumbling backwards, and I readjusted my grip, sliding my hands down the wood until I was holding it like a cricket bat, the metal grip glinting in the light.

“Bastard _,_ ” the man spat. Now I could fully view his ugly face, and I could see that his nose was bleeding profusely, the skin split open at the bridge from a critical blow to the face. My answering smirk was black as pitch, knowing Holmes was responsible for it. 

Holmes, who was lying at my feet, vulnerable and injured, and the fire in my belly burned hotter and more desperate. 

Jaw tight, I carefully stepped over Holmes’s body, placing myself between him and his attackers. My adversary sneered over his swollen nose.

“He were warned,” the man said, tossing his stick from one hand to the other.

 _“Gruner,”_ I accused, through gritted teeth.

The man’s dark eyes glittered with an amusement that sickened me. “Aye. And he’ll not stop til he has his way. Maybe now your detective will listen, eh, Doc?” He slowly raised his stick. “If he lives to see what I do to ya, anyways.”

“We shall see about that,” I retorted, bracing myself, and the man lunged forward with lightning speed, striking hard and fast towards my weaker arm. Grunting under the strain, I struck a sloppy parry, sidestepping backwards. My heart pounded as he kept coming, swinging quick and powerful hits that I could barely riposte in time before they struck flesh. Eventually, too slow, I let out a shout of pain as wood met the bones of my left fingers. My attacker grinned in victory as my grip loosened, and in that moment I took a risk. He outclassed me in brute strength, so I applied the surefire method I’d learned in university.

I dropped my stick, and threw myself at his waist in a rugby tackle.

Taken by surprise, he shouted as I barreled my full weight into him. His back struck the ground and I heard the oxygen wheeze from his lungs, the rattle of his stick scattering away across the cobblestones. I reeled back from atop him, launching my fist against his jaw. His neck snapped to the right, eyes popping wide, and without hesitation, I leveled another, slamming the bleeding knuckles of my left hand into his other cheek. His head jerked and I saw the whites of his eyes as they rolled backwards, and the man went boneless beneath me. 

War drums pounding in my ears, I froze there, stalled above him as I stared at his slack face and the blood on my battered knuckles. The moment soon snapped like a broken cord, and my heart jolted in my ribcage. _Holmes._

Scrambling away from the unconscious man, I dashed to his side.

“Holmes,” I gasped, kneeling beside him. He did not respond, and I desperately scanned his body for injuries. A welt was blooming below one of his high cheekbones, and the blood smeared across his face came from his mouth, crimson dripping from his pink lips down the column of his neck to pool in the street. My heart stuttered in fear at the prospect of internal bleeding, and my fingers frantically sought the pulse point in his neck. I released another gasp of relief to find it slow but steady, and I held my own breath as I listened for Holmes’s breath sounds. They seemed to rasp in the channel of his throat as air left through his nose, but did not seem labored enough that I would be forced to aid him.

“Good God, Holmes,” I whispered, eyes stinging. _I should have walked him home. We knew there'd been threats made against you, I should have been here at your side—_

 _Enough._ My guilt would not aid him now. I shoved away the pain and fear, seizing upon the instincts I had honed in the war and forcing them to the forefront. Holmes needed my focus, and damn it, he would have every scrap of it. Looking up frantically for passerby, I whipped my head back and forth, searching the darkness. The sound of laughter met my ears and I turned to see a man and a woman walking by, arm and arm, and I threw out my voice in a bellow.

“Help! Assault! Call the police!” I hollered, and they gasped and stumbled at my cry.

“Oh my—”

“Call for help!” I thundered, injecting my voice with every shred of military authority I possessed. “Someone has been deeply hurt and needs care!”

"R-Right away!”

In the minutes it took for help to arrive—first in the form of a bobby and swiftly afterwards, a medical carriage—my attention was devoted to Holmes. His breathing had remained steady, pulse a reassuring staccato below my fingers that tethered me to calm. I would not leave his side even at the pressing of the ambulance men from St. Bart's.

“He is my patient,” I snapped out, as one arm attempted to lift mine from Holmes’s wrist.

“You need medical attention yourself, doctor.” I scoffed, throwing the arm away. A few torn knuckles were nothing to a lifetime of pain in the leg, and I would kneel on soaked cobblestones for days if Holmes could not rise from them.

“We will both be going to hospital, but he needs more urgent care.” I finally tore my gaze from Holmes’s face to look at the constable standing beside me, frowning down at the unconscious men lying around us. “Constable. Alert Inspector Lestrade. Tell them that Sherlock Holmes has been attacked, and that I know who is responsible.”

 _“Sherlock Holmes?”_ The policeman said, gawking below his helmet. The two medical men also stopped to stare, first at Holmes and then at me, but soon professionalism outweighed their awe as they assembled a cotton stretcher beside Holmes. With painful care, I assisted them as they coaxed Holmes onto it, who stirred with a quiet moan but did not wake.

“Doctor...Watson,” the policeman started, as I rose achingly to my feet, taking my stick from the ground to hold it tightly in my hands. “These men—I must know what happened for my report—”

My response was short, my attention fixed as Holmes was eased into the back of the medical carriage. “I came upon them assaulting Holmes, who had been struck unconscious. I took them by surprise.”

In the corner of my eye, the constable shook his head—with disbelief or suspicion, I could not tell. “Alone?"

"Yes," I said coldly. "There were none such as yourself in sight. I did what was necessary to protect my friend."

"But why—”

“Your questions will have to wait, constable,” I said, voice harsh as it left my mouth. “I _must_ go with Holmes. Tell Lestrade to meet us at St. Bart’s as soon as he can.” At that, I clambered into the carriage behind Holmes, who had been settled gently in the rear bed. As the driver set us off, I settled near his head, holding his neck steady with tender hands. Eyes closing, I sent up the fiercest prayers I was capable of—for our swift arrival, and above all, safety for the man I held in my hands.

* * *

To my desperate relief, Holmes’s condition remained stable. The physician on call, after examining Holmes’s breathing, pulse, and the condition of his ribs—beneath my critical gaze—declared after careful inspection that internal bleeding, while not impossible, was unlikely. I was given orders to watch him intently overnight, once I made it clear that I was going nowhere from his bedside. After some disapproving reprimand from said attending physician—who I reluctantly admit was merely doing his job, and properly—I allowed him to clean and wrap my knuckles in soft bandages.

Finally, after a hour's vigil at his side, Holmes awoke.

I stiffened at the sound of a low groan from where I had slumped in my chair. His bruised face wrinkled and my heart rose to my throat, overjoyed as I watched his eyes flutter open.

“Be still,” I whispered, reaching for his hand and sliding grateful fingers between his. Deep, cinereal grey, color so unique it was tattooed upon the surface of my mind, reflected the warm candlelight. He blinked, wincing in pain, and those eyes turned dazedly upon me, pupils like drops of ink in smoke-soaked parchment.

“Watson,” he rasped. His hand tightened over mine with a fraction of the strength I knew him capable of, but it comforted me all the same. I released a sigh that had been locked inside of me since the moment I saw him lying unmoving in the street.

“Thank God,” I murmured, leaning close over him. He tried to twist upwards, grimacing, and I shook my head. “Be _still,_ my dear fellow. Please. Do not strain yourself.”

“I take it...” he began weakly. “...I was found near the Pit Gallery. Passerby or police?” He exhaled stutteringly, brow furrowed in pain.

“Neither,” I said quietly. My voice did not have the steadiness that I wished it did. “It was me, Holmes.”

Instantly, his attention flew to me, awareness springing into his weary eyes. “You?”

I swallowed thickly. “I—I had wanted...” I trailed off with a faint, forced smile, feeling foolish for the distant creeping of warmth in the corners of my eyes. I blinked rapidly, willing them away. “I had wanted to walk you home. I made to catch up with you on the way to Baker Street.”

“My dear Watson,” said Holmes, voice rough. His eyes flickered with a regret I did not understand. Or perhaps, I thought, as his hand squeezed mine, I did. His eyebrows furrowed, however, as his thumb grazed the gauze wrapped over my knuckles, and he looked down, eyes widening.

“I found you...at the feet of two blackguards,” I said. “They are in the custody of Scotland Yard, now.”

“You engaged them,” Holmes said. “And clearly emerged the victor.” He offered a weak, if proud, smile, which at any other time would have rendered me warm with joy.

“I took them by surprise." I felt my face harden at the memory of their twisted faces, the gut-wrenching eddies of panic and rage. I closed my eyes at the red vividness of blood which flashed in my mind, weeping from my knuckles, trailing from Holmes’s mouth.

“Watson,” Holmes said, his weak voice impossibly gentle. I clenched my jaw.

“Gruner will pay for this,” I said, heat crackling like fuel-doused fire in my gut. “I thrashed his men for what they did to you on his orders, and I’ll not stop there.”

“No, no,” Holmes said. “Watson, you cannot—”

“Like hell I won’t,” I snapped, cruder than I intended, but the very sight of him—face swollen in bruises, his chest wrapped beneath a thin linen gown, paler than death—incensed me to my core. “First the attack on Mr. Johnson and Ms. Winter, and now you. Christ’s sake, look at the state of you, Holmes.” His handsome face was marred with red contusions, which would purple and yellow in time. One eye had nearly swelled shut, and his bottom lip had been split open. The sight of his ribs when the physician had inspected them still consumed me, eating away at my good nature with poisonous teeth.

“I will be _fine,_ ” Holmes insisted, hand seizing mine. “I know my own body, and it has known worse wounds than these.”

I did not care. This was now. He was hurt, had been threatened, and I could have lost so much more than the skin of my knuckles. The reality crashed down upon me like a tsunami wave, burying me in its dark, icy pressure. 

“You cannot know,” I said, the words issuing through my teeth. “You cannot know what was like, to come upon—to see you lying there bleeding—those—those _blighters_ standing over you with sticks—”

“Watson—”

“I thought—” I almost choked on the words. “For a moment, I—”

I could feel myself edging towards a despair that I could not bear to fall into. Shaking my head, I leaned close to him, hand leaving his to slide, with greatest care, against his cheek. I did not care for where we were or who could see. I merely needed to hold him, as best as I could, because against reason my heart was petrified still that he would slip through my fingers, haunted by a pain it had known for years and could not withstand again.

“Watson,” Holmes whispered, tilting into my touch. “My dear fellow, I am alright. Please. Do not be frightened.”

“I could not bear to lose you another time,” I said, my throat flayed with emotion. “My dear Holmes. Do not believe I could stand to let a man who tried to harm you go unpunished. That damned Austrian will pay for this.”

“He _will,_ Watson, he will,” Holmes said, tiredly lifting a battered hand to slide over mine as I thumbed his cheekbone. “But not in any manner that lands you in federal detention. No, that is not the way. If our positions were reversed, you would—”

I shook my head. “Never mind me, what would you do? If you had found me in such a way, and knew the man responsible?”

Holmes’s eyes flickered, smoke transfiguring into iron, and I could not help the faint, smug smile that broke across my face.

“I would see justice done,” Holmes said coolly, voice firm. “But within the natural boundaries of the law.”

I croaked out a disbelieving laugh. “I used to think you an accomplished liar.”

"I assure you that I am, to most," clipped Holmes. "To all but my brother in some occasions...and in others, it seems, to you. But that is not the point. You _cannot_ rush off to dispatch the Baron like some knight errant, Watson, you are no vigilante. Your morality would not allow it.”

“My _morality—”_

“Is precisely one of the reasons why I love you so,” Holmes said. I swallowed my words as he tilted his head, pressing a kiss against my calloused palm. Something within me trembled at the sentiment, like the foundation of some edifice cracking under strain, and I sighed heavily enough to collapse. 

“...I am so glad you are alright," I whispered.

“As am I. And that you rescued me so thoroughly, without great injury to yourself.”

“What are we to do, Holmes?” I asked, feeling hopeless. “There is no evidence that those brigands work for that devil. I doubt they will confess to being under his pay.”

“No, you are right in that. Gruner exercises too much fear over them. He is powerful and they know well he could reach them even behind bars, with his connections and his wealth.” He tilted his head to look at me, eyes burning with a calculating light. “Which is why, my dear man, I have formulated a plan.”

I couldn’t help another watery laugh, dropping my hand to his arm. “A plan already.” I shook my head, full of aching fondness. I loved this man with my entire being. “You’ve been conscious mere minutes.”

“Ample enough time to hatch an idea,” said Holmes, smiling with a devilishness that not even the most mortal wounds could repress. “We will ensnare this Baron Gruner, and see that he is made accountable for his crimes. But it will require some deception, from us to the public at large. And I will need your help.”

“I am here to be used,” I said immediately, and the wicked glint in his eye faded, softening to something much more fond.

“And you are so much more than useful,” he said, and I shook my head ruefully, a pleased flush seeping into my cheeks. “There are no limits to what I owe you, and now it seems I owe a debt on my very life.”

“Then as its creditor, know that I will go to whatever lengths to preserve it.”

“We near theatrics now, my dear fellow.”

“Is it theatre, if it’s the truth?” Briefly looking up to ensure the room was clear, I leaned forward, and press a swift, tender kiss to his brow.

“Soft heart,” mumbled Holmes, voice bleeding affection.

“Tell me your plan,” I said, tapping a finger on his bicep.

“It’s quite simple, Watson. Gruner’s men left me in a desperate state. Tomorrow, London will hear that I have returned to Baker Street to slowly die of my wounds.”

“ _Die?"_ Even knowing better, the concept alarmed me. "Heaven’s sakes, Holmes, you've a black eye and two broken ribs.”

Holmes lifted a dark eyebrow. “And the only to know that besides us are behind bars, prevailing upon my physician’s discretion.”

“I see...I presume you intend for Gruner to believe he has won. But to what end?”

“All will be revealed,” said Holmes. “I must meditate on the details.”

“It would be better if you _rested,”_ I said pointedly.

“I’ll have plenty of time for that in false hospice,” said Holmes dismissively. “Now, Watson, I have a question for you. Tell me, do you by chance know anything of the Ming dynasty?”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> the second and final part of this (if i ever post it, as a 'sequel'/companion fic) will be from Holmes's POV!
> 
> hope you enjoyed it, folks!. lmk with a comment below! hmu @apprenticeofdoyle or @biwatson on tumblr if you wanna gush about granada or SH anytime, my door is always open. <3


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